


look, the cup of my pain is already poured out

by congratsyouvegrownasoul



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Aging and Reflecting on Life, Angst, Complicated Relationships, Gen, Loghain is Kieran's father, Married Alistair/Anora Mac Tir, Parenthood, Secret Children
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-29
Updated: 2019-10-29
Packaged: 2020-11-09 07:28:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20849747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/congratsyouvegrownasoul/pseuds/congratsyouvegrownasoul
Summary: Loghain and Fiona meet at Skyhold. Things are said and more left unsaid.





	look, the cup of my pain is already poured out

like the nightingale who wails her lost child, you're inexhaustibly wild  
sorrow this; sorrow that

* * *

Since he arrived at Skyhold, Fiona has tried to avoid Loghain Mac Tir. It isn’t too difficult, since their paths rarely cross--he comes to the library sometimes, stays for hours poring over maps, but in those cases she makes herself scarce. But one day, she stumbles across him on the battlements, on her way to the Inquisition’s new mage tower.

“Enchanter Fiona. It’s been, what, thirty years or so?”

Fiona grits her teeth, thinking about what the man in front of her tried to do to Alistair. She wants to push past him and continue on her way--she wants to shout at him. But she remembers, suddenly, the way Maric used to talk about his closest friend. More importantly, she remembers that she is the leader of the mage rebellion and she has a duty to be diplomatic. 

So she makes herself smile politely, and hopes it doesn’t look too forced. 

“Warden Loghain. I’m surprised you remember me.”

He lets out a short bark of laughter.

“Even with Maric’s way of getting himself into trouble, him being taken prisoner by Orlesians and darkspawn was certainly memorable.”

Fiona finds herself smiling again, and softening a little. It's not just the memory of Maric that lies between them, after all--her son and his daughter are married, political arrangement though it is, and had things gone differently they might have had grandchildren in common. A strange and tenuous intimacy, especially given he knows nothing of the connection.

“I didn’t remember that was you, at first, though,” Loghain continues. “Then some new recruit mentioned that the elven mage leader used to be a Warden, and I made the connection. There can’t be many who fit that description.” 

“I suppose not.”

“The mages...I know she’s not one of your people, but do you know Morrigan?”

Fiona raises her eyebrows, confused. 

“We’ve spoken several times. She keeps to herself, mainly, but she’s certainly very knowledgeable, with an...interesting perspective.”

In some ways, Morrigan reminds her of Loghain, with their brooding, prickly intensity. They had fought together during the Blight, she knows, and she imagines two people of such similar temperament must have clashed. 

“Have you met her son?”

The question surprises her. 

“Kieran? Once or twice. Why?”

Loghain looks away from her, out towards the mountains, leaning on his elbows on the battlements.

“Do you know if  _ he’s  _ a mage?”

“I don’t know, I haven’t heard anything about that or seen him use magic. That doesn’t mean much, though. He’s only nine or ten--many don’t develop their powers that early. I didn’t.”

She sends Loghain a sidelong glance, wondering why he’s so curious about the boy.

“I wouldn’t be surprised if he will have magic, though. He’s an odd child. Not that all mages are, of course--but beginning to have Fade dreams can set you apart.”

She laughs a little.

“It’s strange, he reminds me a little of Solas--the elven apostate who travels with the Inquisitor, I don’t know if you’ve met him. Always so cryptic, like he’s seen things no one else has.”

“No, I haven’t met this Solas.” Loghain pauses for a moment, bites his lip. 

“I heard once that when a mage has a child, more likely than not the child will grow up to be a mage as well, even if the other parent is normal. You were a First Enchanter--do you know if that’s true?”

“If the other parent is ‘normal’?” Fiona can’t help but snap at him. He doesn’t look the least bit chastened, damn him.

“You know what I mean.” 

Fiona sighs. 

“I don’t have enough evidence to gather a conclusion. Women in the Circle tend to--tended to try and avoid pregnancies. Most women would rather not give birth just to have their baby taken away from them. I think that was the point--to stop us from wanting to make new little mages. Not that you ‘normal’ people don’t create most of us on your own, of course.”

She gives Loghain a bitter half-smile. 

“Besides, keeping us isolated made us weaker, easier to control. So even if a child would spend the rest of his life in a Circle anyway, it had to be a different one from his mother. Morrigan is lucky she was able to keep her son.”

When she had been First Enchanter, Fiona had always done her best to console the few women who had chosen to carry a pregnancy to term. It had been hard enough for her to give Alistair up, and that had been her choice--the best thing for him, if not what her heart had wanted. 

She had heard the same thing Loghain had, and the specter of Alistair’s magic had been a lingering anxiety in the back of her mind for a long time. She’d dreamt, once or twice, about little Alistair being somehow sent all the way from Ferelden to her Circle, and woken up in bittersweet tears, the sweetness fading away when she remembered he would never be with her even if he was a mage. 

She’d been especially nervous when Maric had written her about Alistair being sent to the Templars. He’d danced around any critique of his brother-in-law’s choice, but she could tell from his tone he wasn’t happy about it. Especially since he wouldn’t be able to visit Alistair in Redcliffe anymore. Perhaps Alistair was excited about this, Fiona had tried to reason. He was still so little, and she remembered even the boys in her alienage always wanting to play at war. A human boy would be much more likely to be cheered by the adults around him for picking up a sword. Still, even if it was something he wanted, he was too young to know better, and the thought of him being taught to hate her made her feel sick. Not only that, but he would have learned to hate himself, if he did someday have magic. 

When Duncan had visited her after Alistair’s Joining, she’d been relieved to hear he’d just grown to hate the Templars. Alistair had been thrilled, Duncan had told her, to leave the chantry and was constantly asking the older Wardens wide-eyed questions about his new duties. Fiona knew Duncan would never have pressured her son into doing something he didn’t want to do, but she was still glad he hadn’t told her anything about this until after Alistair had survived his Joining. She’d pressed him for details, hungry to know everything about the young man her little boy had grown into. 

He looked like Maric, Duncan had told her, but darker--brown eyes, light tan skin, and coppery hair instead of blonde. The last time she’d seen him, Alistair’s eyes had still been baby blue, and what little hair he’d had was light and wispy. She’d already thought he looked like Maric then, and that had made him even easier to love. When she’d kissed the rounded edges of his tiny ears, though, part of her had wondered if there would be anything of her in his face, even as she’d been grateful for the prejudices he wouldn’t have to bear. 

She’d blurted something of those memories to Duncan, thinking he might understand as the child of a mixed couple, albeit in a different way. He had smiled at her, softly, and after a long moment told her he thought Alistair had her nose. 

Duncan was fond of her son already, she could tell. Alistair had been shy at first, apparently, but he was a cheerful boy with a good heart, eager to please. He’d clearly begun to look up to Duncan. It didn’t surprise Fiona--after being shuffled from Eamon’s household to the chantry, he was probably searching for a father figure. She’d pushed away a sudden rush of sadness, remembering Maric, and tried to console herself. Perhaps it was fate that Alistair had found a mentor in his parents’ old friend. 

Returning to the present, she narrows her eyes at Loghain. Duncan’s loss is another blow she can blame him for. She wonders, for a moment, if he still dreams of Ostagar and the men he left to die there. Once, when Alistair was newly crowned and the wounds of that time were still fresh, she’d thought him callous. That was before the mage rebellion, before she’d found herself forced to ally with the Tevinter mages and rode out the ravages of her decision. It is different, now that she has been in command--to have the power and the burden of thousands of lives in her hands. So many lives, so many people that she could not possibly know them all, and yet she knows that they are all  _ her people,  _ and her responsibility to bear.

For all she knows, Loghain may still find himself in his dreams on the banks of the River Dane, never mind Ostagar. Fiona understands better than most that there are things time cannot wash away. 

However Loghain carries the weight of his past, he wears his years reasonably well. He’s still lean and fit, with proud posture and a commanding presence. Fiona has rarely seen him out of his armor, and she assumes that is deliberate on his part, to add formidable bulk to his wiry frame. He dyes his hair as well, she thinks--it’s as dark as she remembers from long ago, most unusual for a man past sixty. She would be surprised at his vanity, but relative youth, even in pretense, is enough of an asset for a warrior that he may see it as a practical concern. Up close, she can see that his hands are weathered, if still strong, and fine lines spiderweb from the corners of his clear blue eyes and frame his mouth. 

He has aged well, but he has certainly aged. 

It’s sentimental, perhaps, but it’s hard to see Loghain and not think of Maric, imagine him as he might have been, had things been different. Loghain has always been all sharp angles, and age has not softened him. Maric, she thinks, might have softened. Not just physically--time could have worn down his sadness, let him relax more comfortably into friendly warmth.

Loghain is lucky, of course, to have become a warden so late in life. He could well die a natural death before the taint creeps out of hiding, ringing in his ears and blackening his blood. Alistair, like his father, will not live to be old. She has known this since he joined the wardens, but she has tried not to think about it. It’s not that she resents Loghain his longevity; she wouldn’t wish death on him, at least not now. But the reminder still stings. 

It’s been a long time since either of them have spoken, and Fiona is suddenly aware of how odd he must think her, lapsing into thought and ignoring him. She feels her cheeks flame with embarrassment, and then with irritation when she sees the way he’s looking at her. His gaze is steady and uncharacteristically patient, as if he knows what she’s been thinking. 

“It must be difficult, to give up a child, even if you knew from the start you would have to.”

As if he could  _ ever  _ understand. 

“Even for us ‘abnormal’ mages?”

The moment the cutting words are out of her mouth, she regrets them. Not because they are cruel, but because they come from a wound she doesn’t want him to see. She’s been quiet so long, for Alistair’s safety and for her own pride. Loghain, of all people, can never know. Even if he didn’t realize her child was Alistair, better he never guess there was a child at all. 

He breathes out, a sharp little huff of surprise, as if she’d slapped him. 

“I’m not a monster, Fiona. And I am a father myself. It is difficult...to be so often separated from Anora, even now.”

He looks away, face flushing, as if the intimate words trip awkwardly on his tongue. 

“Silly, isn’t it? She’s stronger than I am, I think, and I still worry about her.” 

“Do you tell her that?”

The question slips out. Fiona remembers the stiff, steely queen by Alistair’s side. Anora seems very much her father’s daughter. Would it make her feel loved, or burdened? What would Alistair feel, if he knew of her and her own worries?

Loghain raises his eyebrows, surveying her for a moment before he speaks.

“Would you be surprised if I said yes? I don’t entirely keep my own counsel. Not everything is a secret.”

“No, not everything.”

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Title and opening quote are from Anne Carson's Oresteia. Inspired by me thinking about how Loghain and Fiona's situations in DAI have a lot of parallels they wouldn't fully realize themselves, and how in general they are in many ways extremely similar people (Maric's got a type!)


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